Sing the Sorrow
by mutemockingjay
Summary: She is confusing. Maddening. Strong. On occasion, endearing. And Peeta Mellark wouldn't have her any other way. For the Lover100 LJ challenge.
1. Wreck of the Day

**A/N: So, because I am a broke college student, I can't get anything for my boyfriend for Valentine's Day. So, instead, I have decided to do the Lover100 LJ challenge-100 love themed oneshots. I got him all into THG to begin with, so even though I won't be done with 100 by February, he'll still have a bunch of Katniss/Peeta. This probably won't keep to a schedule like Dark on Fire is, however.  
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**Love you, Rane.  
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**This prompt is "Lush".  
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* * *

I can't believe it.

Well, I don't want to believe it. But I can tell, even without her mother telling me what happened. It shows in her bloodshot eyes, the sag of her body, and the stink of it—not only on her breath, but it's as if white liquor is seeping through her very pores.

How could she? How could she sit there with him, and take up his habits, as if it's no big deal at all? I slam the empty bottles on the table, and by the time I walk out of there, the blind fury of it all is making me shake all over.

As the door slams behind me, I hear Haymitch say something to Katniss about "self righteous people" and I let out a small, bitter laugh.

If only he knew the reason for my anger.

If only he knew.

* * *

By the time the cameras are gone and I am deposited in my brand new house in the Victor's Village, I am a wreck.

'She has no idea,' I think bitterly, as my hands grasp the unfamiliar doorknob.

Has no idea how deeply she has hurt me, or how numb I've felt, since I've found that all of the kisses, all of the gestures of love she had showered on me were merely an act. I don't show it, of course. There are people to please, appearances to keep up. But when I get the chance, I avoid her. It's all I can do—everything else is excruciating.

The house, as I expected, is empty. Well, it has been furnished, but it is devoid of anything that would bring warmth. No people, no personal effects. I sink into a soft armchair by a roaring fire—someone has tended to it carefully, in anticipation of my arrival—but I still feel frozen to the bone.

That's when I decide.

I have no doubt that Haymitch is passed out; he had been drinking like a fish from the moment we stepped off the tribute train, and I doubt he has had some sort of revelation and magically stopped in the time between then and now. I have watched him drink too many times to count, and oftentimes I've wondered why. What it is he's trying to forget, to erase forever in his mind.

The Games?

Or something else?

It sounds nice, though, forgetting. Going somewhere beyond pain, beyond the numbness I dream in and out of. Does it soothe the nightmares, I wonder?

I wouldn't know, really.

I've had wine before, but only during our treatment as tributes before the Games. Our family may be better off than those in the Seam, but most of our money went towards supplies for the bakery; my mother never let us waste it on frivolities like wine.

I slip out of the house undetected; with winter beginning to approach the howl of the wind hides any sounds I make as I still struggle to adjust to my new prosthetic leg. I peek in Haymitch's filthy window, and my earlier assumption is correct—he is face down on his kitchen tale, a bottle clutched in one hand, a knife in the other. It is only a few paces to his front door, and it is unlocked. I would have thought he'd keep everything under lock and key, terrified of unseen ghosts—he has to sleep with that knife for a reason—but perhaps he is simply too drunk to remember or care.

I wrinkle my nose at the smell; Haymitch has never been tidy but his house is covered in years of grime, dusty, and miscellaneous filth that I don't even want to think about. I try and walk as quietly as I can, pausing every two steps or so to listen, and make sure he has not woken from his inebriated slumber. He has not, and I make a clean get away, rushing out of his foul house with a single, full bottle of the white liquor.

I wait until I'm back in my own, in the same chair by the same fire, to break the seal. I have become all too familiar with the harsh scent of it thanks to Haymitch, but I know nothing of the taste. I raise the bottle to my lips and am about to gulp it when I realize something—drinks require a toast, right? And who better than to toast the person who dragged my emotions into tatters?

"This is for you, Katniss," I say, my voice cracking on her name.

The drink burns so powerfully that for a split second it threatens to make a reappearance. I sputter and cough; fractions of curses in between hacking sounds. How Haymitch can down this like its water will remain a complete mystery.

That, however, does not stop me.

I tip the bottle upwards, a sip for each time she kissed me during the Games.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…_

My head begins to buzz, my limbs getting heavier.

_Eight, nine, ten…_

It's not working. I'm not forgetting. Every time I close my eyes I still see her face, the rare smile, feel her touch, burning in the half daze of the cave. The bottle is half empty and my sluggish thoughts rebel—'Up the ante' they cry. So I do.

Two sips per kiss.

Two sips for every time I've thought of her, every time I stupidly imagined living a life with her.

The former could drain the whole bottle and then some, but I take my time—maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. I expected tears at some point, and sure enough they do make their appearance. But what I don't expect is the intensity of every emotion. Melancholy mixed with happiness—bitter when I think of the outcome, but tatters of the original happiness of the moment still cling to each memory.

And then there is the anger.

I don't even know what sets me off, what particular memory or thought kick starts the rage. But once it begins, I cannot stop it. It consumes me, the unfairness of it all. I want to blame her, I really do, but a single, baser shred of me, the shred that still loves her—and probably always will—does not allow me to do so.

So instead, I curse at nothing, and everything. At the Games, at the reaping, at President Snow, at my parents, Gale, the tributes, Haymitch, but each time I try to bring the words 'Katniss Everdeen' to my list of scum and villainy, I lose my words.

That's when I begin to throw things. Knock the knickknacks off the fireplace mantel. Books, bound in leather, shiny and new, are thrown to the floor. Dishes in cupboards, vases; a sip for each item I destroy into a thousand broken pieces.

And finally when the cursed, blessed, tormented bottle is completely drained I throw that too, watching it shatter. But it's not enough. It will never be enough.

I am on my knees, blood seeping from my hands when I place them on the floor, decimated by the crystalline pieces of glass.

"Kat-Kat—Katniss," I pant, bile rising in my throat.

I want to say that I hate her. That I will never forgive her for what she did to me.

"I—I—I…"

Instead, all I can do is retch, curling my fist into a ball and watching as the spatters mix with the remains of the white liquor.

It can be never be enough.


	2. Extraordinary Girl

**A/N: Prompt for this drabble/oneshot/ficlet is 'birthday'. Shorter than the other one, mainly because I am terrible with fluff. But I tried. **

* * *

She doesn't pay much attention to her birthday. Most of my classmates from the Seam don't; for them it's just another day. Not quite so in town, where most of our cakes are sold for birthdays, and I was trained in the art of frosting them as soon as I was tall enough to see past the counter.

Her twelfth birthday falls not long after I tossed her those burnt loaves; in fact they are so close together that the bruises from my mother's beating haven't faded completely yet. The memory of the pain does nothing to stop my next theft, on the morning of her birthday. Actually, it's easier than I thought it would be. A swipe of my hand—careless and nonchalant—deposits it into my schoolbag, while Mother counts change for a customer.

"Good morning!" I say cheerfully to them, and my mother scowls in response.

I have no doubt that she'll discover what I've stolen, and by the time I get home from school I will pay dearly for it. But I just don't care. I'm so happy I could skip the entire way to school, singing at the top of my lungs. I don't, though, because the latter inflicts horror upon any poor person that happens to be within a fifty foot radius.

On account of my excitement I am early, and I can hardly sit still while I wait for the front doors to be unlocked. So instead I pace, though I have to stop when I make myself dizzy. I nearly knock over the poor groundskeeper when he finally opens them, and I shout a quick apology before racing straight up the stairs to the Year 7 cloakroom. Year 7 is the last grade that has open, wooden cubbyholes for our belongings instead of proper combination lockers like the older students. Apparently twelve year olds are still considered "too immature" to handle the _very_ grave responsibility of managing a three digit lock the way the rest of the world does. So, of course, we complain about it constantly, but nothing is ever changed.

Today, however, the cubby system suits my purposes just fine. I crouch down, looking for her name written in the think black ink of our teacher's favorite pen. When I've found it I open my schoolbag, and gingerly move the pilfered goods. I step back to admire my handiwork. A little squashed, but overall, not too bad.

There is one problem, though. I fumble with my pockets, with my bag, looking for a napkin, anything clean to put it on, or wrap it up with, but come up short. With a sigh I tear out a piece of paper from my notebook and place the present on that instead. A little (well, okay, a lot) lame, but it's the best I can do, considering the circumstances.

The cake is small, probably about half the size of my fist. But I frosted it myself the night before, in greens and blues and silvers, hoping she'll like the colors. I take one last, long look at it before turning and going back downstairs, to meet up with my friends in the yard.

"Happy birthday, Katniss," I whisper as I leave, wishing that I had the courage to tell her in person.


	3. Kiss The Girl

**A/N: Some of these are going to be drabbles rather than oneshots, because that's how I roll. Prompt is "kisses". **

* * *

Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to kiss her. Well, maybe more than sometimes. Most of the time? All the time?

I can never truly come up with an answer, though. I have never kissed her, or any other girl before. I won't pretend there weren't opportunities for others—I have noticed other girls, but none have ever stuck in my mind like Katniss has.

So I hang back, and wait. Wait for the 'right' moment to tell her how I feel, or to even speak to her at all. But it seems like there will never be one, and it's embarrassing that I can't even find a way to get out those words—three simple words—though at this point I'd even settle for a 'Hi, Katniss, how are you doing?' when we pass each other in the hallways at school. I've always been so good with words; talking to people is not a problem. But with Katniss, I find myself shaking, worried I'll do something stupid, or say the wrong thing, or nothing at all.

I tell myself that there will eventually be a time where I can, when we can both be alone, but that's a lie. She's almost always alone at school, unless she's having lunch with Madge Undersee. And I don't see her outside of classes—everyone knows that she would rather spend her time with Gale.

When I am reaped, I can barely think. Fear dominates too much; fear and missing my father. But after the goodbyes, when I force myself to stop thinking of my family, my thoughts turn back to her. How I could protect her in the arena. If now, finally, I can tell her.

And that maybe, just maybe, I'll find it in me to kiss her.


	4. The Sun Ain't Shining No More

**A/N: Seems I'm in a rather drabble-y mood at the moment. Prompt is 'sunset', like that wasn't obvious or anything. xD**

* * *

In the bakery, sunsets are rare.

Not in that they don't occur—that much is obvious—but I never get much of a chance to see them. More often than not I am up to my ears in chores after I finish my homework, and by the time I am finished dusk has already settled, the moon beginning to glow under the night sky.

Sometimes, though, when I'm making the dough for the next morning, I get the chance to look out the window. I always try my best to let it linger in my mind, to memorize the pinks and reds and oranges (my favorite), hoping that one day I could paint a picture in more than my mind.

A picture I could share with her. It's all too easy to imagine—to sit somewhere, somewhere far away from the bakery and watch it with her, wrap my arms around her.

But that's all it will be, I remind myself as I knead the dough.

Nothing more than imagination.

* * *

In the arena, sunsets are a blur.

In between the running, the injury, the hours upon hours of lying in pain, I only catch a glimpse here and there. It's a sea of haziness; terrifying with the tracker jacker venom, and only a smear of color when it feels like every part of me is burning up.

These aren't my sunsets either way. The arena is drenched in a blood red sky, and I turn away from it. Turn away from the boy I used to be, the one who envisioned watching them with Katniss. That boy is gone, and when I slip into the inviting darkness, I don't expect to ever see him again.

* * *

In the Victor's Village, sunsets are bitter.

I can watch them all I want now, no longer loaded down with chores at the bakery. I'll still walk over there and help out when I can, but it's not the same. Nothing ever is.

Now that I have paint I bring my easel outside from time to time, dabbing at the canvas without success. The colors are never come out the way I have seen them, both over the years and in front of me, and there are moments when I just want to throw the whole thing away, and never look at it again.

Because whenever I paint, all I can see is what is never there.


	5. The Word of Your Body

**A/N: Okay, so we have a rating change here, people, because of this one. Prompt is 'virgin' and yes, this is smut. I'm not the PWP type, so it has character development and whatnot, but if you don't want to read sexual stuff, just avoid this one. From my understanding of the FFN Guidelines (and information a dear friend received when she emailed a staff member of the site) a 'M' would be considered the equivalent of an R rated movie. Therefore, as far as I am concerned, anything that was in the 'Sex and the City' movie would fall under that category. If you think this is too explicit, however, you can always report me. **

**This ended up being unintentional AU. I didn't realize *spoilers* Katniss and Peeta had sex at the end of Mockingjay (before the epilogue obviously) until TVTropes pointed it out. Very subtle, Suzanne Collins. Very subtle.  
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* * *

I would like to be able to say that I know exactly what to do. That I will walk into that bedroom, see Katniss there, and everything will be perfect. I'm not quite idealistic (or stupid) enough to believe that, though, and as I stand outside the door, it takes all my willpower to stop my good knee from banging into the prosthetic one.

I lick my lips, and very slowly push open the door, wincing at the slight squeak it makes. The sound seems like a sonic boom to me in my heightened state, and I grip the doorknob as if it were a lifeline.

She is waiting for me, sitting at the edge of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest as she stares out the window, the pale glow of the moon illuminating her. As usual, the sight of her takes my breath away, only this time, it's worse. Her hair is undone from the elaborate braids she wore at the wedding, and it hangs down her shoulders in soft, dark waves, framing her face. In this light, her nightgown looks flimsy, and I can practically see through it—her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the subtle jutting of her hip bone. I gulp, heat coiling in the pit of my stomach. Seeing her like this makes me faint with wanting, but wanting and doing are two very different things, and I can't bring myself to go forward. So, instead, I lean up against the doorframe.

"Um, hi," I squeak, instantly hating myself for the words, and my tone.

'_Hi'? You're about to make love to her, and the best word you can come up with is 'hi'? You're an idiot, Peeta. A total idiot. _

She laughs, a rough sound, more so than usual. The idea that she, whose will is stronger than mine will ever be, is nervous puts me at ease for about a millisecond.

"Standing there all night won't make things any easier, Peeta," she says, and I nod in agreement.

My limbs are stiff as I move towards her, sink down onto the bed next to her. She uncurls her legs, leaning up against me the way she had three years ago, at our concluding interview for the 74th Games. Holding her in my arms then, at sixteen, I had felt stirrings, but the Peeta who talked with such ease then feels like an alien being to me now, so innocent and unaware of what was to come. My hands find hers automatically, and she gives them a gentle squeeze, a small sign that seems to say, "I'm nervous, too".

That's when I kiss her, softly at first, but she responds with more, like she did during the Quell, at the beach. I want to take in all of her features, her expression, especially her eyes, those grey eyes that have confused me, wanted me, rejected me, loved me over the years. But I cannot; the edges of my vision are starting to go blurry, the world shimmering at the edges.

_Oh no._

Not here, not now. Please, anything but that. It has been two years since the pain and torture, and my attacks have gotten less frequent, and I have learned to take control of them. But here, of all places? I swallow, hard. I can't hurt her. I don't even want to think of hurting her again. The scars from where I tried to choke her so long ago are gone, but I can never forget them, and neither can she.

I grip the quilt on the bed; hold onto the fabric so tightly that my knuckles go white. But the pain is distracting; the pain is something to focus on while I take slow, deep breaths.

"Peeta? Are you…all right?"

Katniss' voice feels disconnected, otherworldly, and I take a final exhale before speaking. "I…give me a minute. Please."

She says nothing more, pulling away from me, and my hands search for something more solid to hold onto—the bed frame.

_Breathe in, breathe out. You can do this, Peeta. Everything is fine. _

My head stops swimming, the images in front of me are no longer shiny, and I sigh with relief. I blink a few times, just to make sure, but everything is clear, so I turn my attention to Katniss. She has moved towards the headboard, once again drawn her knees to her chest in a gesture of protection. Her eyes are mournful now, and I feel a flash of guilt pinching my chest. I move forward, sit next to her, finally stretching my legs fully.

"I'm all right, Katniss," I say, and I reach up to brush a stray bit of hair away from her face.

That is when she allows herself to smile, and my heart does a back flip, the way it always does when I see her smile. She does it so rarely, fear, worry and sadness a near permanent etching on her face. Our kisses start small, chaste, until with a small sigh, she pulls away, and settles herself next to me, in the crook of my arm. She tilts her face up towards mine, and this time when she leans in there is absolutely nothing gentle about it—Katniss, the girl on fire, is burning again, with raw, greedy hunger and her hands roam up my chest, past my neck, and through my hair.

Her tongue slips into my mouth and my arousal is sharp, sudden, and demanding. I can feel myself losing control again, but in a new, different way. Still, my hands won't quite cooperate with what my mind wants, shaking a little as they undo the top two buttons of her nightgown. We have never made it past kissing before, and somehow, my fingers won't cooperate with the pearly buttons, which somehow manage to keep slipping from my grasp.

"Here." She is impatient as always, the only moments of patience in her life saved for the woods, for her hunting. Those deft, scarred fingers take control; she slips the nightgown off her shoulders, biting her lower lip as she does so.

Now, she will not meet my glances, and I am reminded of the girl in the Arena who looked away from my nakedness in the stream. But there is something more to it than that now, a sense of shame as she looks down and traces one of her scars, leftover from the burns. The skin grafts and medical technology can only do so much, and I can sense her unspoken question.

Am I still beautiful? Do you still want me?

I kiss her again, trailing small kisses down her neck, to her collarbone. "You are so beautiful," I whisper in her ear, and she doesn't respond with a thank you. Instead, she kisses me so fiercely I swear I can feel down to both feet, even though my artificial leg makes that an impossibility.

She runs her hands down my bare chest—I had seen no point in wearing a shirt—and I have never felt something more intense in my entire life. That is, until I hesitantly trace her collarbone. She sighs a little, and I move my hands southward, to her breasts.

"I…oh!"

Katniss has never been a girl of many words; oftentimes she leaves me to do the talking. But this fragmented sentence tells me more than I could possibly imagine—I am doing something right. With newfound confidence I press my lips to her neck, to her shoulders, teasing her a little as I feel her shift and groan a little with impatience again.

As much as my body wants to rush, to do everything and anything in quick succession, I force my mind to slow down its thoughts. I want to do this right; I want to remember the scent of her hair, her skin, like smoke and wood chips and the pine needles and dirt of the forest she loves so dearly. Remember the taste of her—the tartness of the wine she had at the wedding, the toast we had roasted over the fire, the mint leaves she must have chewed on earlier, while waiting for me to come to bed.

All too quickly, though, the nightgown is crumpled, and kicked towards the end of the bed, and her hands trace the top of my pants. I can feel myself blushing for once; though it is not from embarrassment, far from it. My hips buck a little at that simple touch, but as her hands move further down, prompting exploration. I grab them, and kiss her fingertips.

"Not quite done with you, yet," I say, grinning at her.

She is about to object, to argue or snap the way she does when being teased, but when I kiss her again, kiss her all over—her breasts, her waist, stopping short of her hips—she is unable to form words. Instead all I hear are small sighs and unintelligible words, and I feel a spark of pride at the pit of my stomach. That I can do this to her, make her close her eyes and respond with pleasure. More than anyone else ever could—hell, even more than Gale, though I quickly try and shake the thought of him from my mind.

Thinking about Gale is not where I want to be right now, or preferably, ever. It's about Katniss and me now, and I wish for it to stay that way, to forever be her boy with the bread. I smile at the nickname, the one she had given me before, though she is blissfully unaware that I know of it. But I know her, better than I can even begin to know myself. And now, I am beginning to know her in new ways, as my hand traces patterns on her inner thigh and her eyelashes flutter when she exhales.

She draws me in for a kiss, all of her need pulled into it, into the movement of her lips, her tongue intertwined with mine. When she breaks away, I am dizzy, everything is out of focus for a brief moment. She grabs my hand, and moves it downward, still a little skittered and uncertain.

I don't know what I'm doing, and I have no idea how to touch her, how to keep up the pleasure that seems to be blazing through every inch of her. Something inside me presses me forward—I don't know if it's instinct or sheer, stupid bravery—and I cup her crotch. Being with her has always been a twist of ease and difficulty, the scales constantly tilting between one or the other. Right now, though, I am leaning more towards ease as she responds, pushes herself against me.

"Peeta," she says, and with my free hand I brush aside the stray pieces of black hair that have stuck to her forehead, slick with sweat. Sweaty or no, she is the most beautiful I have ever seen her, fully bare before me, panting with lust.

"Love you, Katniss," I murmur as I kiss her again.

"Love you, too, Peeta," she says, and my entire body floods with warmth. How _good_ it feels, to hear her say those words and finally mean them.

This time, when she her hands move farther south, beyond my chest, I don't stop her. Don't stop her as she pulls off my pants, taking care with my prosthetic leg. Don't stop her when she removes my shorts, either, though I can't help but chuckle and marvel at how far we've come—how far she has come, from being the sixteen year old she once was, to nineteen, a grown woman.

There is still a fraction of her clinging to that pure girl, and if I wasn't so completely lose in the sensation of her hands on my hips, I would have noticed her hesitation when her hands dip and grip me instead. That is when I lose all semblance of control and kiss her fiercely, run my hands through her hair, across her body, doing everything and anything to both prolong and stop the pleasure. When I hear her murmur, "please," though, I snap back to reality and a brief panic takes over. This is it, this is the moment I have been both terrified and excited for, and all my earlier apprehension returns.

"I…I.." I am blushing again, and my voice has changed from being husky with desire to a shameful whisper. "I…am not sure how to…"

We had never gotten a chance to have that talk, my father and I. With everything that happened after the very first reaping, and the horrific aftermath of the Quarter Quell the next year, he had never told me what to expect, the day I would get married.

Katniss bites her lower lip, her hand reaching for her hair, half expecting to see her normal, single braid, to play with the ends of it. "I don't know, either. We'll…" She looks at me, her grey eyes illuminated. "We'll have to learn. And…" Now she begins to stammer, the words evidently difficult for her to say. "And there's no one I would rather learn with than you, Peeta."

How can I even begin to describe what that means to me, to hear her say that? How can I even begin to find adequate words to express the emotions that course through me—love, pride, desire, a hint of mourning, lost in memory? That and so much more overpower and overtake everything I could ever make sense of.

Katniss can see the flitter of emotion across my face, and she caresses my face, kissing me. "On top of me, I think," she says in between kisses.

I nod in assent, making sure to lean on my elbows, as not to crush her with my weight. I reach down between her legs and touch her, placing two fingers inside her. She is slick with arousal and this causes mine to multiply tenfold, even more so as a shy smile spreads across her face, a vision of near-perfect happiness. But I can only hold back so much, and part of me is throbbing, aching to start. So I give in to the will of my body, though I still somehow manage to be far from graceful in doing so. I shake my head ever so slightly, the only part of my brain not addled with lust wondering how my hands, so deft with a paintbrush or a knife, could be so clumsy and foolish now.

When I enter her, I had expected happiness. But, instead, a flash of pain crosses her face, before she slaps on a neutral mask. She has had worse aches and pains before, of course, but Katniss has never been tolerant of even the mildest form of physical hurt. I withdraw immediately, placing my head in my hands, completely disgusted by myself. I had promised myself I would never hurt her, and now, on our very first night together, I had broken that.

I fight back the tears—Katniss has seen me cry before, but now is not the time for her to witness that. A mantra runs through my mind, piercing, digging into my skull with shards of deadly glass.

_You've hurt her again, Peeta. You've hurt Katniss. _

"Peeta?" Her hand is on my shoulder, and as much as I want to ignore it, I can't. I've already caused her physical pain; I sure as hell don't want to be the cause of mental agony.

"Yeah?" I am hoarse from the effort to stem the flow of tears.

"It's okay."

I shake my head, unable to form words. It's not. It's far from okay.

She knows I'm far from convinced, and she guides me to turn around, to properly face her. "Peeta," she says again, two fingers lifting my chin to meet hers. "I'm all right. I promise. Don't…don't beat yourself up over this. Please." She kisses me, first my lips, then my cheeks, my entire face—each spot where a tear would have landed. "I want you," she says. "I want this."

Her hands, delicate in their own right from eight years of setting the most fragile of snares, of being precise enough to shoot game with a single arrow, work magic. Or at least, I swear it's some sort of magic. She is torn between confidence and uncertainty, and there is something so utterly endearing about it that my fears slip away.

When she grasps me again, my gaze on her is unrelenting. "You sure?"

"Absolutely," she replies, kissing me.

I watch her carefully when I enter her, and thus far she seems to have stuck to her word—there is no pain in her expression, no nuances to suggest that she is hiding it, either. A rush of pride pushes me forward, and I rock my hips a little, sliding in and out of her slowly, gauging her reaction.

Maybe it's the pleasure that builds that causes me to do more; maybe it's instinct, or maybe it's just the unraveling of control, the pressure mounting inside me. Either way, I begin to move faster, and she arches her back in response. I scan her quickly, make sure she is not hurting, and when I am certain she is not, I let my body do the talking. Each thrust from me creates an equal reaction with her, as she moves her hips in response. I have never felt anything close to the adrenaline that courses through me now, pleasure that I had been vaguely, somewhat aware of, but had never truly come to life before.

Her hands find wrap around my neck, loosely at first, though I eventually have to disengage for a moment to place them on my shoulders, so she doesn't cause me to lose my breath completely. The pressure inside my builds, and I feel myself losing grasp on it, running wild within me. When I see the look on her face, the pure beauty of it, the pure happiness I see within her for the first time in months, I lose it completely.

"Katniss…I…" There is absolutely no nice or graceful way of saying it, so I only pray that she'll understand. There are no words for me anymore either way; for a second everything flashes a dazzling in-between, of every color and then nothing at all. I come back down to Earth, sweating and shaking from head to toe. Embarrassingly, my good leg is shaking so much that it causes the other to emit a small clanking noise and I shrink a little, trying to focus on her.

"Are you okay?" She asks me, and that's when I lose it completely.

The anxiety, the near vision of earlier, the joy and sadness and pride and finally, pleasure, gets to me in one overwhelming swoop, and I begin to laugh. Not the kind that disappears quickly—this is hysterical, ridiculous, and if I weren't so lost in it I would probably be humiliated by it.

"Peeta?" She raises an eyebrow questioningly and that does absolutely nothing to tame my hysterics—in fact, it makes them worse.

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head and leans back up against the pillows—I swear at least once her palm makes contact with her face. "I'll be over here whenever you're done cracking yourself up," she says.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself. It takes a while but finally, the laughter dies out and exhaustion settles in. I lie down next to her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and tugging up the blankets to keep her from getting cold. Tonight, there will be no nightmares. Tonight, it will just be peace, just the two of us. I close my eyes, letting that sink in. I am just about to drift off when I hear her voice, a whisper in the darkness.

"Peeta, what in the hell were you laughing at?"

I chuckle, and roll over. "I have no idea."


	6. Set My Soul Alight

**A/N: I have absolutely no confidence in my ability to write these past few days and I have a bunch of unfinished prompts I'm worried that suck. I finished up this one, and still think it might suck, so constructive criticism is always much appreciated. Prompt for this is "touch".**

**Oh, and by the way my penname is temporary, and is a stupid joke between myself, To Kill A Mockingjay, and someone else who doesn't really write for this fandom. The nickname 'frosting prince' comes from IsForWinner's amazing fic 'Wrong, In All the Right Ways'. Go and read it, it's brilliant. :)  
**

* * *

The first time I _touch_ her it is a complete accident. Well, kind of. Maybe. Not really. Well, I hadn't intended to; I'll leave it at that.

I had tried so hard to convince her. To tell her the truth. It's an ugly one, and I hate it. Hate that we will not be able to get out this arena as a pair; that one of us will be returning to District 12 in a wooden box. And I'll be damned if it's her. I have told myself over and over again that she can live without me—that she will live without me. She has her mother, Prim, and as much as I hate to admit it…she has Gale. And as much as I—well, there a few choice words I could use to describe my thoughts on him. No matter what I think of him personally, though, I know he will always watch out for Katniss. That he always has, and does a better job of it than I ever will.

So when she says, "I need you," my heart stops and my thoughts scatter.

'I need you, too!' I want to say, holding her and never letting go. Because oh god do I need her. More than anything else, more than I could ever say to her, or that I dare say to her. I take a deep breath, and that's when she kisses me.

I have to force myself to stay focused, and to not lose myself in the dizziness that threatens to overpower me.

"Katniss, I—"

Another kiss, swallowing my words.

"No, really, Katniss—"

Her tongue slips into my open mouth and I lose all contact with responsibility, and reality. There is only her. Her hands in my hair, the scent of salt and sand clinging to her skin, the curve of her waist as my hand rests there. This wanting is nothing new to me; I've felt it ever since the first time I took her hand, at the reaping so long ago. But she has never quite responded like this, eager but it feels real now. Not the staged 'I can never live without you' kisses that she's given me over and over again, the type that still have the ability to leave me weak at the knees with desire and self-loathing.

These kisses are different, this want burning and insistent. I have never seen her so desperate for more before, and I get caught up in it, forgetting. Forgetting that Finnick dozes in and out of sleep a few yards away. Forgetting that right now, all of Panem can see us kissing, a moment that should be so private and belong only to the two us is now broadcasted over the entire nation. But we have never gotten a single moment to ourselves like this, and we never will.

Her fingers fiddle with the zipper on my jumpsuit, and I know I should stop her. Pull away, and take her hands in mine to keep her from exploring further. But I don't, and when her fingers brush against my chest I lose it. My lips are on her neck, her shoulder, just behind her ear. My hands in her hair, at the nape of her neck, finally dipping beneath the collar of the flimsy blue fabric of the jumpsuit. She tilts her head back a little, her body an arch. She sighs and I kiss her gently. She has no use for gentleness, however, and her hand seizes mine, daring me to go further, to do more. I can feel her heart thumping when she presses herself against me, her breathing rapid and shallow.

"Peeta, I-" She whispers in my ear, but the crack of lightening hitting the tree in the distance drowns everything out.

The harsh light illuminates the beach for a split second, coating it in an eerie silver glow that makes her grey eyes stand out. In the ghost light she doesn't look like the strong Katniss I know and love, the one who knows who she is and makes no apologies for it. The girl in the light is broken and haunted, the death of every tribute before us reflected in her scattered gaze.

Finnick wakes from his nightmares and offers to take watch. I coax Katniss onto the sand, our moment over. She protests at first but it doesn't take long for her to sleep. I reach over and take her limp hand in mine. I don't know what tomorrow brings, and who will be left by the end of this, but I know that for however long I live I will hold onto the feeling of her touch.


	7. No Air

**A/N: I name all my chapters after the song I am listening to while writing this. So yeah, I know "No Air" is somewhat of an obnoxious song, but the lyrics are actually very fitting. **

**Prompt for this is "firsts".  
**

* * *

The first time I tell her, I can barely get the words out. All the coaching in the world doesn't help me now. No amount of drunken advice or threats or even half sober calm moments can get me to choke out the words I have rehearsed in my head.

And by now I have written and re-written those words over and over again to the point where I can't even make any sense of them anymore. For a single, fleeting second I want to back out of my plan. Find somewhere private, tell her face to face. I can only imagine Haymitch's response to that—hell, I don't even need to. He had spent at least an hour pacing and drinking, gesturing wildly with the bottle while he counted off the reasons why I needed to do this now.

"_You've had…what, eleven years to tell her, Peeta?" He slurs at me, sloshing white liquor down the front of his shirt. "If you don't tell her now, you never will!"_

"_Well, I mean, I could always…" I am mumbling, looking at the ground. _

_Haymitch snorts. "Yeah, good luck with that, kid. This is your last chance! Either one or the other of you is gonna end up going back to District 12 in a wooden box, so if you don't man the hell up and tell her now, at the interview, you'll regret it for the rest of your life." He hiccups, and the stink of the liquor makes my eyes sting. "However long you'll be living."_

"_I will be certain to keep that in mind," I reply stiffly. _

"_Damn straight."_

I lose my focus completely during her interview, and when the light reflects off her dress as she twirls for the audience, I lose my breath completely.

_You don't have a chance with her in a million years, Peeta. There are so many others…and I'll bet she doesn't even remember the bread. You're idiot for thinking she'll choose you over any other boy_. _Why even bother?_

And then my name is called, and I slap a smile on my face, walking with calm, measured steps.

_Talk about something else. Anything else. It's not that hard. As long as he doesn't bring up girls, you don't have to say anything, right?_

So I do, focusing on my family at first, at least in the most indirect way possible. It hurts too much to talk about my father. Or even my brothers, though the three of us drive each other crazy some (well, most) of the time. I throw the limelight onto the other tributes instead, everyone but her. It becomes easier, as I lightly poke fun at each tribute's temperament based on the bread from their District. I can see some of the Careers shooting me dirty looks, most notably the pair from District 2, who look so fierce that I change the subject to something safer, though it's completely ridiculous.

"Tell me," I say to Caesar, "Do I smell like roses?"

The audience explodes into laughter and for the first time all day, I feel a genuine smile creep across my face, lightness fluttering into my chest. That is, until Caesar asks the fateful question, if I have a girlfriend back home.

_ohgodohgodohgodwhatdoIsay—_

I fly into a complete panic, sweat tricking down the back of my neck. I know if I open my mouth I will only squeak like a girl, so I merely shake my head.

He presses for her name, but the words 'Katniss Everdeen' refuse to come to the surface. I don't even remember what say. Something about a lot of boys liking her?

I try to keep it as vague as I can, loathing myself for my cowardice. But there is only so far I can, and when Caesar asks, "Why ever not?" I know my time is up; it's now or never.

_Come on, you can do this, Mellark. Like ripping off a bandage. Make it quick and get it out of the way. On the count of three…_

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

I can feel myself flush from head to toe; I am so dizzy I am seeing double when I stammer out, "Because…because…she came here with me."


	8. Lift

**A/N: I really wanted to have more of these done by Valentine's Day but I have been very ill this past week and haven't been able to spend much time out of bed. This was originally going to be an overall seasons one but I kept getting stuck so I just left it with spring. And lucky me, there is a prompt for "spring". **

* * *

In the spring, when the earth is damp with rain and the scent of primroses hangs heavy in the air, Katniss brings roots along with the squirrel my father is so fond of. They are small, tube like, and I don't know the name of them but I like them all the same when Mother cooks them and mashes them the way she mashes potatoes.

I turn them over in my hands and give them to her silently, not daring to tell her where I got them from. Nothing ever escapes her notice, however, and when she asks I look her straight in the eyes—the key to lying, I've figured out, is to never break your gaze with someone—and reply, "The market."

"Hmph," she sniffs, "Can't say I've ever seen them there before. But better from buying than that Everdeen girl. Filching off my trash, and now going door to door, flouting the rules right under everyone's nose. It shouldn't be allowed. Girl deserves a good whipping for it; that'll teach her to stay in her place."

I bite my tongue, letting the taste of blood remind me not to say anything stupid. As soon as I can I excuse myself and return to kneading bread, pounding harder than is necessary. There is nothing I can do to defend her from my mother's cutting remarks, not without giving her away, and cutting off her weekly visits as a result. So I do the only thing I can—slip a few extra coins from my small allowance in the leather pouch my father hides in the cupboard above the dishes, the pouch reserved strictly for her visits. He doesn't always pay her in coins; we can't afford it and Mother guards every penny like a magpie. But if he knows of my meager contributions (and I'm sure he does) he says nothing to me, and I am grateful for it.

Instead, on a bright May Sunday, he pulls the leather pouch from its hiding place and gives me a small smile.


	9. Nightingale

**A/N: Much thanks to the lovely Flaarda for betaing this, despite the fact that she hasn't actually read THG yet. Prompt is beginnings, and the song lyrics here quoted are from the song "Nightingale" by Rachel MacWhirter. As far as I am aware, it is not licensed music, and therefore I am not breaking the Guidelines by quoting it. **

**You can listen to it here: http:/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v=rQio6ogxLVI**

* * *

It's the first day of school, and I don't know how to tie my shoes.

I am biting my lower lip, trying very hard to watch where I step, when I see her and trip over my shoelaces. Dad grabs my shoulders, keeping me from hitting the ground, and brushes back my hair. He points to her, where she is standing across the yard in a red plaid dress and a small red bag on her back. Her hair is tied into two braids; when she smiles I can see she is missing one of her front teeth. She is holding the hand of a man who looks just like her. Dad's grip on my shoulder becomes too tight. I wiggle out of it, and I hear him sigh a little.

"See that little girl, Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"That's Katniss Everdeen. I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner." He sighs again.

I look up at him in confusion. I have seen the miners sometimes, when they walk through town. They are always covered in smelly grey stuff, and they look so sad. But Dad smells like baking bread, and he doesn't look sad in front of me or my brothers. Why would Katniss's mother want to marry a stinky old coal miner instead?

I know it's not nice to call someone stinky, though, especially if I don't know them. So instead I take his hand and ask, "A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner when she could have had you?"

In the distance I hear a teacher calling our group in for music assembly. Dad ruffles my hair and says, "Because when he sings…even the birds stop to listen."

He waves goodbye, and I shuffle in with all the other kindergartners, though when class begins I am not paying much attention. Until she, her hand raised high in the air, bounds down to the front of the room in that red plaid dress and begins to sing in a sweet, clear voice.

"_Take your leave from this world that has caused you such pain,_

_Fly away, nightingale, fly away._

_Flee from the darkness, escape from the rain,_

_Fly away, nightingale, fly away._"

By the time her song is over, the birds outside have stopped chirping, and I have decided I am going to marry Katniss Everdeen.


	10. I Believe

**A/N: I know it's been a while since I've updated. I have a bunch of these half finished...that haven't gotten finished thanks to getting ill again, and playing major catch up with schoolwork, and then personal life got shot to hell recently. Again. But, point of the matter is, Rane saw these Valentine's Day and loved them, and I have two more for y'all to enjoy now. **

**Prompt is "lips".  
**

* * *

I didn't think she'd ever do it.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I _want_ her to. I want her to more than anything, and I always have. But when she looks at me, I see mistrust.

Suspicion.

A scowl.

Like I'm pulling one over her or something. The same look she gave me the night of the interview, mixed with that shattering temper. Or when she saw me with Glimmer, Cato, and the others. The loathing in her eyes, and under that falsely cheerful voice nearly fractured me. But she didn't know that. And maybe she never will.

We're the "star crossed lovers of District 12" and yet, her lips have never touched mine.

And then she does. Out of nowhere, she interrupts what I am saying, not that I will remember a word of it. I have imagined the moment over and over again, until it became perfection in my mind. Everything I wanted and then some. But with my head swimming and my leg throbbing, the only thought that registers is, "Her lips are so chapped."


	11. The Venom Inside

****Mockingjay spoilers****

**Putting the tag mainly for my Dark on Fire beta, Martienne. She still hasn't read Mockingjay yet. Generally, you can tell my mood by what I'm writing, and this is just one of those days. **

**Song for this chapter is Sin with a Grin, by Shinedown. Mucho thanks to Doc for introducing me to this song as the lyrics suit this piece well.**

**Prompt is "beauty".  
**

* * *

"I want to talk to her," I say to Haymitch.

His eyes are bloodshot, his forehead in his hands. After three hours of talking (well, two of those were spent with me yelling at him) I think he's finally run out of words. He looks over to the team of doctors; as always, they are listening to our every word. They murmur amongst themselves, and Haymitch's earpiece crackles.

"They said yes," he croaks, licking his lips. "Midnight."

There is nothing more I can say to him, and he knows that. So I merely nod, and wait.

When I hear the door open, my muscles lock so painfully I have to bite my lower lip to keep from crying out. I can't show weakness in front of the mutt. If she is still a mutt. I have no idea what will be on the other side of that plain wooden door, and it seems ridiculous that _I'm_ the one strapped to the bed in three different places.

But the girl standing in front of my bed doesn't look like the mutt I've grown to cringe from. She's petite, and average looking at best. Maybe she'd be a bit more attractive if she wiped the miserable scowl off her face and left her arms hanging at her sides instead of crossed over her chest, but for now all I see is an unhappy seventeen year old. The only light I see within in her is in her eyes, which are a misty shade of grey. But even then they are wary, and she regards me with suspicion.

Watching her, I have no idea what the old me saw in this girl. In the videos I've seen, that Peeta looked at her like she was the most exquisite creature on Earth. When she walked into the room, as far as he was concerned, no one else existed. But now, I'm sure if I walked into a room of a million girls, she'd be the last I'd pick from.

It seems like forever before she speaks, and when she does, her voice is shaking. Nerves, maybe? I'm not sure, but it feels empowering, to be able to make her tremble. Like I'm strong, when before I was so helpless over the things I saw, the ways she hurt me in varying degrees of agony. It makes me dizzy, but in a good way, the fear I had felt before beginning to drain from my body.

"Haymitch says you wanted to talk to me," she says.

I keep my voice rough. I won't let her creep in on me; it would only lead to her taking advantage of me. "Look at you, for one. You're not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?"

"Well, you've looked better," she snaps back, and the pain that flickers across her face is palpable.

This goes on for a while, and I feel the rage inside me come close to boiling over. My hands begin to shake. How dare she, on top of all the other hurt she's inflicted on me? So I say the thing that I know will make her feel guilty. Make her hurt just as badly as I have.

"And not even nice. To say that to me, after everything I've been through." My laugh is harsh, and cruel.

Sure enough, she winces as though I've slapped her. And I know I've triumphed, as she makes a motion to leave, mumbling an excuse about how she doesn't feel well. I should feel good, about hurting her that way. I've overcome the mutt; I've made her sink into the floor.

But instead, all I feel is empty, and by the time our heated exchange is over and she leaves properly, I want to curl up into a ball and sleep forever.

I don't notice the team of doctors leave and barely register Haymitch's presence until he is right in front of me. He doesn't offer any words of comfort, though I know by now that is far from his style. Instead, his parting words haunt me, uncharacteristic of his usual sarcastic, blunt style.

"She loves you, you know. Even if she won't admit it."


	12. Ain't Nothin' But A Kiss

**A/N: Prompt is "cheek" (well technically writer's choice so this is what I went with) and the title for this chapter comes from a musical. Yeah, I'm a dork. I'll readily admit that. **

* * *

Her hand grips mine so tightly that it's painful, but I don't care. Because for the first time in my life, she's holding my hand. Not the brief handshake at the reaping that she ended as quickly as possible. Now she is clinging to me as if her life depended on it, which it does. I can't tell if she knows that yet; if she's even considered that I will always protect her, even if it costs me my own life.

Actually, I know it will. After all, there can only be one victor, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that it is her. She is radiant when we ride through the city—granted, I always think she is beautiful but tonight there is something so much more than the quiet girl I see at school sitting with Madge Undersee. With the fire illuminating her she truly comes to life. Waving to the crowd, blowing them kisses, catching the flowers thrown her way. It's hard not to get caught up in her giddiness and for a brief moment I forget. Forget where we are headed, forget what awaits us. There is only her. The flush that has spread to her cheeks, the glow in her grey eyes.

When we reach the City Circle she loosens her grip on my hand, and I swallow the disappointment that wells up in my throat. I don't want this to end; now that I have finally felt what it's like to be so close to her I want it to last forever. So I link our fingers just as tightly as before, and she looks at me, the unspoken question in her eyes.

"No, don't let go of me," I say. "Please. I may fall out of this thing."

My balance is perfect, of course. But she seems to believe me. There is no more time for talk when President Snow begins to speak. For such a small, thin guy, his voice is booming and anything I say would be drowned out. I am not even paying attention to what he's saying anyway. My eyes are on her, and when he finally stops speaking we circle one more time before disappearing into the Training Center. Instantly we are surrounded by stylists and prep teams. My flames are extinguished, and that is when she lets go of my hand. My fingers are stiff and white; it takes a few minutes of rubbing my hands to get the color back in them.

There is a small beat of silence between the two of us, and I fill it as quickly as I can, carrying on the lie from earlier. "Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say. "I was getting a little shaky there."

My knees are shaking now, but I stand up straighter, hoping she doesn't notice.

"It didn't show," she replies. "I'm sure no one noticed."

The next words slip out without calculation, without thinking twice. "You should wear flames more often. They suit you."

And they do. I know I will never be able to let go of that image, of how breathtakingly beautiful she was tonight. I smile at her, but quickly panic and lower my eyes, biting my lip. I can't tell if she had been holding onto me so tightly because she truly couldn't stand upright, or maybe…just maybe…she likes me too. The thought makes my heart do back-flips in my chest, and I am filled with a warm glow from head to toe.

She steps closer to me, and looks up at me. Then, so quickly I wonder if I'm imagining it, she stands on the tips of her toes and kisses me on the cheek.

Every part of me longs to take her into my arms and kiss her straight on the lips, but I don't. Instead, I step into the elevator with Effie, Haymitch, and her. Effie begins to babble, but I don't even bother listening. Because I only have one thought in my mind, the moment played over and over again.

Katniss Everdeen just kissed me, and I couldn't be happier.


	13. Real or Not Real?

****Mockingjay spoilers****

**A/N: Since I ended up messing up canon in the other oneshot...I figured I might as well fill in the blank spots on the page before the epilogue with this one.  
**

* * *

Beside me, she sleeps fitfully. I am half dazed myself but when I feel her shift against me, a low, tortured sound at the base of her throat threatening to turn to screams, I am instantly awake. Before, I never had to think about helping her and now as time ever so slowly ebbs away fractions of my torture it has become a reflex to comfort, instead of go mutt.

She begins to whimper, and my arms wrap around her shoulders, holding her close. She stirs, and slowly her grey eyes, clouded with terror, look up into mine.

"Peeta," she murmurs, burying her head in my chest.

I don't say anything at all. Don't tell her it's going to be okay, or that she's safe now because I know she'll never believe me. I don't believe it myself, though I try to. Instead, all I do is breathe in and out slowly and hold her close like I had done so many nights before on the train, nights that are now still tainted with the remnants of hijacking. This is the first night since returning to the Victor's Village that we have shared a bed, and I am surprised at how natural it feels to return to the old ways. Ways that I never thought I could trust myself enough to come back to, or that she would even allow me to.

But she does, and when she lifts her head up, I can see her eyes are red, her cheeks stained with tears. Loose pieces of hair, come undone from her braid due to sleep, are stuck to her forehead with sweat and I lean down and brush it aside, tucking it behind one of her ears.

I am rewarded with half a smile, and that is enough to get my heart pounding again, to be washed in the happiness that only loving Katniss can give me. One hand reaches for the sheets and clenches the cotton between my fingers, the desire to kiss her making itself known. There have been times since coming back to the Victor's Village that I have wanted to do so, but I force myself to curb the impulse, to focus on something else. The last time we kissed had been in that filthy sewer in the Capitol; in a desperate attempt to bring me back from going mutt. Not of love, not of sweetness, but of fear and madness and frenzy, and sometimes I wonder if that is all I deserve.

Haymitch, of course, in his usual blunt way, had told me to, "go ahead and kiss her, damn it!" a few weeks previous, when I had returned a goose gone astray. I never know what to make of Haymitch's advice—there are times when he is completely right, in between the liquor binges. But I have been lied to far too many times to put a lot of stock in what he has to say.

"Peeta?" Her hand finds my clenched one, and the look she gives me asks a million questions and then some.

"I'm…I'm fine," I say.

_I'm not holding back from kissing you all over. Nope, not me, whatever may have given you that idea?_

She gives me a skeptical look, removing her hand from mine. This does nothing to do curb my desire, however—she has planted the seed, and unfortunately there is no household chore to keep my mind off of it until the urge passes.

_Change the subject, Peeta. Quick_. _Something. Anything. _

"One of Haymitch's geese landed in the yard this afternoon," I say.

She sits up partially, balancing her weight on her elbows. "You woke me up," she says slowly, "to talk about Haymitch's geese?"

"No?"

I want to sink into the pillows and attempt to go back to sleep, but that's not an option when I see the look on her face. The pain I know all too well, the images and scents and the voices—oh god those voices—that linger in the nightmares, and never leave our waking hours, either.

I open my arms to her and she nestles herself back in them, mumbling, "Not gonna be able to sleep anyway."

Still her breathing slows to a relaxed pace, and she wraps one of her arms around my waist, pulling me closer. And as per usual, she has no idea the effect she can have on me. It's like I can barely catch my own breath—not only because it feels so _good_ but I'm afraid that if I even move an inch the spell will be broken, and she'll turn away.

Her eyes flutter closed and she buries her head in my shoulder, just like before. With each exhale warm air hits a spot on my neck that makes me dizzy with wanting. And when her lips gently make contact with the skin there my vision blanks out completely, and all I see is white.

_She can't possibly…there is no way…but there is only one way to find out…_

I kiss the top of her head, and she makes that little happy humming sound she does sometimes when she's content. I hadn't heard it in what feels like forever, and it gives me courage.

"Katniss," I say, and she lifts her head.

I cover her mouth with mine, and for a moment, I panic. Because she isn't kissing me back. She's frozen, and I begin to withdraw. But then she wraps her arms around my neck kisses me back. I sense more than want in her kisses, which build. There's _need_ there. Need for me in all ways. As a lover. A friend. A protector.

Oh, I know she can protect herself, defend herself. Better than most. But the way she clings to me now, I can see the vulnerabilities in her. The weaknesses. Not to be exploited like I thought before when my mind was in ruins. But to be treasured, to heal if I can. It makes me love her all the more, and when she urges me for more, her eyes dark with wanting, I give in. Give in to what I had pushed aside, refused to hope for ever again. I suppose, ever since this mess has begun, all we've had is each other. Sometimes we understand each other, but more often not. For the first time, though, we're in sync. And we learn, exploring each other in new ways, in this need that is old and new at the same time. We are one, and when it's over I hold her tight, unwilling to let go.

There is only one thing on my mind, and part of me is still terrified to ask it. I know I have to, and I force myself to push forward.

"You love me." Real or not real?"

And then words that are sweeter to me than anything else I've heard in my life.

"Real."


	14. Whipped Cream

**A/N: Okay, so I know reading this chapter, your train of thought will be, "wait what?" when it comes to Katniss's behavior, but I promise you by the end it makes sense. Seriously. I am going to leave the prompt at the endnote as to not give it away. This is heavily inspired by the song "Whipped Cream" by Ludo and their video, which has them putting whipped cream on stupid things like grilled cheese sandwiches and ukuleles. **

* * *

_I want it with whipped cream on it, baby gimme gimme gimme you love..._

_-Ludo; Whipped Cream_

* * *

When I get home from school, I expect to see my mother behind the counter at the bakery, ready to grill me about my day at school. Or my father in the back kitchen, baking and humming to himself as always.

What I do not expect is for the shop to be empty. Silent.

I drop my schoolbag on the floor. "Hello?" I call, and get no response.

I raise my voice a little more. "Mother? Father?"

Nothing.

"Too good to be true," I mutter, and I head into the kitchen. Unusual that not even my brothers are home; normally their antics could be heard a mile away.

"Basil? Rye?"

"They're not here."

"Wha-?"

I turn around, only to find that I am not alone after all. I stagger backward a few steps, reaching out for something to steady myself with. But there is nothing, and I run the risk of falling flat on my back.

_Definitely too good to be true_.

Katniss Everdeen sits on the wooden kitchen counter in the center of the room in her school uniform, her stockings loose and bunching at her calves.

"Kat-Katniss?" I stammer, and this time I trip over my own feet. It's the first words I have spoken to her in all my fifteen years, and, of course, I can't even say her name without stuttering.

_Smooth, Mellark. Real smooth. That's sure to win her over_.

She laughs and hops down from the counter, holding out her hand to me. I pause for a moment, and she looks as though she is about to withdraw, so I quickly place my fingers around hers. Her hand is warm but callused, the surface covered in scars. I vaguely wonder where they all came from, and if she would tell me if I asked.

However, it doesn't seem like I will be talking any time soon because as soon as I am on my feet she kisses me. I have never been kissed before so I have nothing to compare it to, but even if I did I know this would be infinitely better. Because it's _Katniss_, and kissing her is everything I've ever imagined and then some.

When she pulls away my head is spinning, and I try to catch my breath. I don't bother speaking; anything would end up coming out as unintelligible babble. The hair on my arms stands on end and the back of my scalp tingles. I force myself to take a deep breath, and without thinking I reach up and press one finger to my lips, which feel as though they are burning.

I don't know what possesses me to do it.

One minute I am standing there in a complete daze, and the next I am scooping her into my arms and placing her back on the kitchen island. I am kissing her again—one taste isn't enough, it could never be enough—and her hands are running down my shirt, unbuttoning it. My hands wander to the collar of her blouse, and just as I am about to touch the top button she shakes her head, grabs my hands and in one quick move flips me over so that she is straddling me. Our hips are lined up and when she presses against me I let out a small moan, slapping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.

I hadn't known it was possible for something to feel so _good_. Good being a relative word. I am not quite sure there is a single adjective for what I'm feeling, which is the desire to rip off all of her clothes and do things that…well, I'm not even sure exactly what I am supposed to do, but my body aches for it.

I have no idea how Katniss has such a delicate sense of balance for she pulls herself off me, stands fully upright, and jumps from the center island to one of the counters that line the walls.

"Katniss, what are you—"

"Stay," she orders, and I do.

I watch her as she opens one cabinet and then another. Frowning, she hops to the next counter, repeating the process. This time she finds what she is looking for, and makes her way back to me. A can of whipped cream is her hands, and my mind is such a mess of feelings that I can't put together the pieces of the puzzle.

"Katniss, what do you need whipped cream for?" I ask stupidly, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth.

"What, do you think I'm going to decorate a cake or something?"

I laugh weakly. "You'd need frosting for that." I sit up, my palms on the smooth wood of the island. She is still standing, but she places the can next to my left hand, and straddles me again.

"I don't want frosting," she says, and quiets any further comment from me with a kiss. "Shirt off, and lie down."

I obey without hesitation, and she leaves a little trail of kisses down my neck, collarbone, chest, to the waistband of my pants. Just as she is about to go further she pulls away, and removes the cap from the whipped cream. She straightens up a little and aiming the can at my chest, begins to cover me in the stuff.

For most, I suppose this would be a little weird, and I raise an eyebrow. But really, who am I to protest? She wants me, she really wants me, and if she wants it with whipped cream on it, then she'll get it with whipped cream on it. Simple as that.

It is a slightly cold on my skin, though, and will probably leave a sticky trail so I would have to shower—

_Oh dear God_.

She has stopped kissing me now, and moves her mouth southward again. But she doesn't leave kisses on my chest like before—no, she begins to lick off the whipped cream, and my hands begin to shake in the effort of trying to hold myself back. Because that sensation is so intense, unexpected, and so damn good that I am left with nothing but raw desire.

I want her—no, that's not it. I _need_ her. I need her right now, and I won't settle for anything less. I know I'm being way too bold as my hands follow the curve of her waist and slip under her blouse. She doesn't pull away or tell me to stop so I move further upward until I can feel the edge of her bra. I pause, and she lifts her head. The whipped cream is almost gone, and there is fire in her eyes.

"Don't stop, Peeta," she says, and so I don't.

I don't when my fingers dip beneath her bra, or when I manage (after a bit of fumbling) to unhook it. Nor when I take off her shirt altogether. Now it is my turn to kiss her all over, and she sighs, murmuring my name. I place my hand at the waistband of her skirt, fiddling a little with it. She nods in assent, so I find the buttons on the side and undo them. The navy blue fabric pools at her knees, and she wiggles out of it, kicking off her shoes.

Only left in her underwear and stockings, I can't help but stare at her. I'm sure I probably look like an idiot but I just don't care—she's so _beautiful_, how could I not? She swiftly unbuttons my pants, pulling them down to my knees, not even bothering to take them off all the way. She reaches for the waistband of her underwear and some other Peeta, some Peeta who seems to have it all together and knows what he is doing, puts his hands on top of hers and takes them off for her. In less than ten seconds my shorts are gone, and she rubs up against me.

I kiss her hard; she has whipped cream on the corners of her mouth and the sweetness melts in mine. I turn her over so that her back is resting on the counter and I am on top. She wraps her legs around my hips and we move together. I can see her coming undone, giving in to the feeling, and she buries her head in my neck.

"Peeta," she murmurs, and gets louder. "Peeta…Peeta…Peeta…"

"PEETA!"

The scene before me begins to fade, disappearing into a blur of shapes and colors. I am shaking—no, I am being shaken, and the voice calling me now sounds nothing like Katniss's.

"Peeta, get up, you useless boy! You're going to be late for school!" I open my eyes fully, and my mother is scowling at me. She stomps out of the room, and I sit up.

_Just a dream, nothing but a dream…_

I sigh, and begin to get dressed.

Nothing but a dream, and one that will never come true.

* * *

**End note: So, obviously, the prompt here was dream. And if you're like, "WTF are you thinking Tucker, Peeta would never dream about Katniss that way" I just want to say that when I write him, the one thing I keep in mind is that underneath all of his sweetness and charisma and artistry, he is still a sixteen year old boy. And sixteen year old boys think about sex. A lot. Trust me, I have a lot of guy friends, and they aren't afraid to be completely crude around me, so I've gotten how their mind works by now. **


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